To the me who said, 'Oh, I'm fine.' — The day I couldn't accept being offered a seat on the train.

Prologue: The Morning of My First Day Back at Work

A day in May 2026.

I finally took the first step toward returning to work.

I left my house and stood on the platform of the station I know so well. A cane in my right hand. My usual backpack on my back.

If it were the old me, I would have walked through the crowd without a second thought, slipping into any open space.

But for the current me, who has suffered a cervical spinal cord injury, the task of "commuting" had transformed into a high-difficulty survival challenge requiring meticulous strategy.

The moment I stepped onto the crowded train in the city center, the person sitting in the seat right in front of me quickly lifted their hips and gave me a look.

"Oh, I'm fine."

That was the only thing that came out of my mouth.

Chapter 1: Why I Refused

I want to write down the reason I refused, honestly.

The first reason was the location.

The person who tried to offer me their seat was someone who appeared to be a bit older, sitting near the priority seats close to the door where I had boarded.

In that moment, the first thing that crossed my mind wasthe consideration that "this person might have their own circumstances as well".

There are many people in the world with disabilities that aren't visible from the outside. Just as I am one of them.

Perhaps the person who lifted their hips for me actually has bad knees. Maybe they have an internal medical condition. Wouldn't I be putting someone who stood up out of kindness—thinking "you seem to be having a harder time than me"—into a situation that is actually harder than mine?

When I thought about that, I couldn't honestly say "thank you."

The second reason was that I disliked the "awkwardness" of the exchange.

The act of having a seat offered to you, while it seems like a split-second thing, is actually quite a cumbersome process for both parties.

The other person lifts their hips. I approach while saying "excuse me." The other person shifts to the side. I sit down while switching hands with my cane.

I felt that those few seconds of an "awkward ritual" would place an unnecessary burden on both myself and the other person.

I also had a baseless confidence that "I can stand if it's only for a short ride."

But to tell the truth, there is one more reason.

I think I still wanted to be the person I was when I could move agilely.

The old me could read the flow of people and nimbly change my standing position even on a crowded train.

Resistance to becoming a person who "has to have a seat offered to them."

A strange pride about being defined as the "side being helped" by a stranger while in the prime of my working life.

If I just said "I'm fine," I felt like I could still be a "normal person," at least for that moment.

With these three reasons combined, what came out of my mouth was "Oh, I'm fine."

Chapter 2: Regret arrived two stops later

I gripped the pole firmly and braced myself. The first stop was manageable.

However, after passing two stops, my left leg, which I had been bracing, began to spasm quietly.

Spasticity due to a cervical spinal cord injury. My muscles would tense up on their own, and I couldn't control them as I wanted. Every time I braced myself against the swaying of the train, my left leg sent a signal saying, 'I've reached my limit.'

What added insult to injury was the 'changing of passengers' that repeated every time the train stopped at a station.

Every time the doors opened, the positions of the passengers changed. I had to change my standing position to accommodate the new people boarding.

Each time, I had to regrip the pole, regain my balance, and mobilize all the muscles in my body to brace myself again.

And above all, once I had refused by saying 'I'm fine,' it was hard to bring myself to say, 'Actually, I wasn't fine.'

This psychological deadlock cornered me even more than the physical fatigue.

Why didn't I just sit down when I had the chance?

As my left leg trembled, I kept whispering that to myself in my heart.

Chapter 3: A colleague's words turned everything around

When I arrived at work, I was already enveloped in a sense of fatigue as if I had finished a full day's work.

As soon as I sat at my desk, my colleague next to me spoke up.

'How was it, being back? Was the train okay?'

'Well, I managed. I made a bit of a mistake, though.'

'A mistake?'

'I reflexively turned down someone who tried to offer me their seat. After that, my leg spasmed and I regretted it.'

My colleague thought for a moment and then said this:

'...It takes courage for the person offering, too. If they get turned down, they get a little hurt.'

At those words, I froze.

I hadn't considered the feelings of the person I had turned down at all.

It is true that the act of offering a seat requires courage.
At least, that's what I think.

'Will they think I'm being meddlesome?'
'Do they really need it?'
'It would be embarrassing if I offered and got turned down.'
There was someone who overcame those hesitations and still stood up for me.

Yet, with a single 'I'm fine,' I had pushed that courage away.

'I see... they were being brave, too.'

'Exactly. Next time, just sit down.'

It was just a short conversation.

But those words became the most important thing I learned on my first day back at work.

Chapter 4: 'Receiving' also requires skill

There is something I realized through this experience.

It is that 'being helped' is a more difficult skill than I had thought.

The old me always thought I was on the 'giving side.'

Both at work and as a minibasketball coach.

'Acting for the sake of someone else' was part of my identity.

But the current me needs the 'skill of receiving.'

To say 'thank you' honestly.

Not to let the other person's courage go to waste.

Just by doing that, the small society inside the train becomes a little warmer.

Epilogue: The next morning, getting on the train again

The next morning, I got on the train again.

In the crowded car, that moment might come again. The moment someone in front of me starts to lift themselves from their seat.

This time, I intend to say it properly.

"Thank you."

When I can say those words, I feel like I will truly be able to feel that I have 'returned to society.'

Letting go of strange pride and becoming able to honestly accept someone's goodwill.

That might be the true meaning of the 'reboot' that is returning to work.

The sound of my cane tapping and the sound of my heavy breathing.
Marking those 'sounds of me right now,' I get on the train again today.

Thank you for reading this far.
They say everyone is different, but I hope this can be of some help to those who share the same feelings as I do.

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